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The cold evening ached as I trudged uphill through the narrow streets of Kangding, a ghost town at the roof of the world. The altitude sickness bludgeoning the interior of my skull had blinded me to the desolate beauty of the surrounding landscape, but I remained uncomfortably aware of the eyes of the gods upon me. A pantheon, wreathed in offerings of flames and flowers, had been carved into the imposing mountainside of raggedy pines and eddying snow. It struck me as a peculiar feeling, to be utterly alone yet watched, and I hurried along the empty streets to escape the cold company of the gods. My backpack slammed into me to the tempo of each step, threatening to topple me over. The beige and burgundy high-rises of Kangding seemed rustic in comparison to the forest of skyscrapers I had become accustomed to during my time in China. Additionally, there was no haze of pollution obscuring my view of the charcoal sky above. Strings of prayer flags were draped down from the sweeping corners of almost every roof, so that I was walking underneath a fluttering palette of green, orange, and pale blue. A river bisected Kangding and I could tell that I was nearing the centre of town by the sound of rushing waters echoing through the nearby alleyways and courtyards. I strained my ears at the entrance of each home, hoping to detect some muffled banter or laughter from within. Even an argument wound suffice, any noise telltale of human connection would satisfy my craving, but I was repeatedly disappointed nonetheless. The pounding of the Zheduo was the only sound that reverberated through the narrow streets until, as suddenly as somebody flipping a switch, I could hear a polyphonic blend of flutes and drums. The music was accompanied by a lilting male voice, that sounded fuzzy through the distortion of an old speaker. I pursued the music down crooked and winding streets, arriving at a plaza where, in an instant, the solitude I had been experiencing all evening made perfect sense. There were hundreds of people congregated in the square and all of them were dancing. They flowed in an elaborate mosaic of human bodies, resembling the endless knots and dharma wheels damasked on gables or over gateways. All ages were represented there that night: toddlers escaping their parents, young people flirting, and the elderly barely supported by their walkers. Ubiquitous throughout Tibet, the scarlet and saffron robes of monks were intermingled with the other dancers. Their movement was entrancing, my headache evaporated as I rapturously observed the people of Kangding sway and spin. This strange and beautiful spectacle superseded all the contents of my mind with thoughts of devotion and festivity. I was a foreigner, nobody among the dancers resembled me, but I knew I would eternally regret missing out on this captivating ritual if I could not participate. I subconsciously shed my backpack and cuffed up my sleeves as I bashfully hovered just beyond the outermost ring of dancers. A stoic gentleman with a receding hairline noticed me and, with a wordless exclamation of delight, his face was transformed by spidery lines which crinkled around his cheeks and the corners of his dark eyes. He gestured for me to take my place beside him. He danced with an air of formality, as if he was acutely aware of the weight of tradition upon his shoulders. I attempted to mimic the pendulum motions of his arms and abrupt changes in direction, but my fumbling feet moved a full second behind the townsfolk. The man encouraged me with a gentle smile and further exaggerated his dancing for me to imitate. The first constellations had materialized to adorn the velvet sky. They seemed cold and sharp, like bright shards of ice to mirror the jutting peaks of the mountains. I curled one hand into a fist at my hip and extended my opposite arm like a teakettle’s spout, my feet stumbling through a staccato on the cobbles. The Tibetan air was high and cold, my feet were sore, and my heart was overjoyed as I joined the dance.